


Bond, Derek Bond.

by rozabellalove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rozabellalove/pseuds/rozabellalove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Bond’s been shot. It happens every now and again, although it’s not usually his smitten colleague doing the shooting.</p><p>007 Bond AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bond, Derek Bond.

“You shot me.” Derek's dark, furrowed brows showed no sign of lifting in the foreseeable future. “You shot me in the arm.”

“Do you want me to drive or apologize?” Stiles' free hand rested on the gearstick, only a hint of white along the knuckles giving away how tense he was.

“Don't see why you can't do both.” Derek gingerly slipped out of the bloodstained jacket and let it fall against the seat behind him. ’”Do you know how hard it is to get blood off these seats?”

Stiles tried not to grin, he knew 007 couldn't be in too much pain if he was thinking about upholstery. “Should have gone for the leather interior then. Nothing says cheapskate like an Aston Martin with none of the optional extras, you know.”

The sound coming from Bond's throat was remarkably like a growl. It was accompanied by the sound of an expensively tailored shirt being torn apart at the seams as Bond ripped off the bloody sleeve and tried to staunch the bleeding.

“Your tie would do a better job.” Stiles observed.

The silence from the passenger seat made him wonder if it had been a comment too far. Their usual banter had seemed to have no limits, but now that Derek was hurt, Stiles was strangely concerned about offending him.

The roads were tricky, and he was navigating by hope and guesswork alone, speeding along rocky ridges to the wildest outskirts of Scotland. At least he wasn't worrying about being pursued. As he finally came to a long, straight stretch of road with no dangerous drops to worry about, Stiles risked a glance at his passenger.

Derek's body was slumped in the seat, head lolling toward the window. Although the flow from the wound seemed to have stopped, the spy had either lost too much blood, or was just trying to ignore Stiles. Either way Stiles was scared.

His heart tripped to a frantic beat as he jerked the wheel and braked to a sharp halt at the side of the road. There was no response from Bond to the harsh manoeuvre. Stiles yanked the lever that held the passenger seat up and let it fall flat so Bond was almost laying down. His face was too pale and his mouth was open just a little, shallow breaths slipping from between his lips.

In that moment Stiles remembered, perversely, how those lips could curve into a knowing smile. There was a flash of a memory, Bond's soft mouth on the heated skin of Stiles’ neck, whispering everything he had wanted to hear. He'd hated Derek Bond for that night, that one perfect night. Hated being given a taste of something that could never truly be his.

Stiles forgot his pain and barely concealed anger, though, as he realised the spy's life depended on him. He pulled away the sodden shirt sleeve that Bond had almost made into a tourniquet, and loosened Bond's tie, not caring how expensive it might be. He tied it tightly above the wound. Foraging in the glove compartment Stiles found a small first aid kit buried amongst the various weaponry. Bullet removal was not something he was trained to do, but luckily this was a through and through. He leaned over to the far side of the car, to Derek’s injured left arm, wiped the area hastily and steeled himself to push the sterile needle and thread through the firm, unyielding surface of Derek's skin. One deep breath, and another for luck. Just as he was about ready to start, Derek's hand landed on his own and Stiles nearly had a heart attack.

“Oh no you don't.” Derek’s eyes were dark under shadowed brows, “I'll take it from here.”

The spy's experienced hand deftly sewed the first part of the wound closed, but he couldn't quite reach the back, where the bullet had left the flesh of his arm and ripped through the fabric of his suit. Frustrated, Derek rolled his eyes. “Fine, you get to play doctor after all.”

He lifted up his arm and bit off the thread, before handing the needle to Stiles, whose fingers were starting to shake. “Derek, I don't think I can…”

Derek’s uninjured hand slid up to Stiles’ shoulder and squeezed gently. “You can do this. You have to.” Bond's eyes bore into his own, ’”there's no one else.”

Bond's skin was frighteningly pale, a sheen of sweat laced his forehead, and his grip on Stiles’ shoulder was starting to weaken. Stiles closed his eyes for a moment and remembered his training, remembered the cold, impartial way they'd been taught to deal with these situations. Nothing had prepared him to deal with holding the life of a man he had grown to both love and hate in the palm of his hand like this. Even worse was the fact that he'd shot Bond in the first place - never mind that it had been a mistake.

Bond's eyes were closing again and Stiles knew he only had minutes to get the wound closed if he wanted to stop the blood loss. Without dwelling on it any further he leaned across, partially straddling Bond's prone body so he could reach the other side of the wound. He stitched it quickly, despite the tremor in his hands. Two pads of gauze and a bandage neatly covered the stitches. As he worked he tried not to think about who it was beneath him.

There was nothing else of use in the first aid kit, but Stiles managed to get a few drops of water past Derek's lips before he passed out completely. He slid back into the driver's seat, put the car in gear and tried to ignore the fact that Derek wasn't coming around this time.

~*~

The sky was beginning to darken as Derek came around. He took a moment to assess his surroundings, disorientated by the pain. There was a sense of motion and the sound of crunching gravel. The familiar smell of his car and another scent came to him, one that evoked memories of warm feelings, longing - Stiles. It came to him in a second where he was and why he was there. As he began to sit up, the car came to a stop.

Skyfall was remote enough that he could rest and heal, plan their next move more carefully. It was mostly shut away but a couple of rooms would be functional and that was all they needed.

Stiles was rushing around the front of the car to open the door and get him out, but Bond would rather die than show any more weakness . He gritted his teeth and climbed out of the car, resting his good arm against the car for support. Stiles tried to support him but Bond waved him away. “Just grab the bags.” He pushed off the car and tried not to lose his balance. Studiously ignoring the hurt look on Stiles’ face, he made for the mansion’s side door.

The place was cold and dark, but the furniture was still there, under thick, old dust sheets. He paid a housekeeper from the nearest town a good amount for her discretion, and she came once a month to air out the place and make sure there were always clean linens and non-perishable foods filling the cupboards. Luckily the East Wing still had hot running water and electricity, he just had to flip the breakers and sort out the temperamental boiler.

The effort of making the place inhabitable took away Bond’s remaining energy. He slipped into the master bedroom and laid on top of the dust sheet covering the massive four-poster bed. Around him the sounds of Stiles unpacking kept him just on the verge of drifting off. As much as he tried to be the strong, alpha male, Bond couldn’t deny the occasional need to have someone take care of him.

In his hazy state, Derek caught a familiar scent. One that reminded him of cold, rainy weekend afternoons at home - tomato soup. His stomach growled and he heard a snorted laugh from the doorway.

“Hungry?” He didn’t have to open his eyes to hear the grin in Stiles’ voice.

He sat up slowly and scooted up to the top of the bed, before patting the free space on his uninjured side. “Get over here and give it to me.”

“Easy there, Bond. I prefer my men fully functional, thanks.” Stiles was still grinning as he clambered awkwardly onto the bed, spilling just a few drops of soup on the dust sheet.

He could have fed himself, but Stiles refused to give up the bowl and Derek just couldn’t be bothered to fight over it. The soup was warm and comforting. Before he knew it, the bowl was empty and his eyes were closing almost against his own will. The bowl found its way onto the bedside table, and Stiles dragged Derek down into his arms to spend the night.

~*~

Stiles woke up alone. The bed was still warm, though, and he could hear the shower running in the adjacent wet room. He crawled out of the bed and wandered sleepily into the bathroom. 

The room was filled with steam and the sounds of Derek humming happily under a stream of heated water. Derek was facing away from Stiles, and was covered from head to toe in foamy bubbles. His hands were lathering the foam into his hair, and the sight of his shoulder muscles working away made Stiles feel weak at the knees. Rivulets of water sluiced together between those shoulders and fell to the curves of Bond’s high, firm ass. 

The bandage Stiles had applied was discarded in a corner, and Bond had covered his wounds with a couple of Q’s high-tech waterproof dressings. 

Stiles’ clothes were dropped in a pile on the floor before he really realised what he was doing. Either Bond was off his game or he was deliberately ignoring the sounds of Stiles stripping behind him. “Room for one more?” Stiles grinned.

Bond’s answering smile over his shoulder made things flutter inside Stiles in a way that was far too girly for his liking. “Well you could use a good scrubbing.” Bond’s smile was wide enough to show teeth, and Stiles couldn’t remember a time when he’d seen more than a smug grin from the man in the past.

Before he could step forward, Bond reached out one dripping wet hand and dragged him under the hot spray. The tiles were slippery wet, and Stiles nearly slid into Derek’s arms. He clung to Derek as he regained his balance, and found himself pressed against firm, heated skin. Derek released him slowly, but they stayed close together. Derek’s smile was gone now and he gazed down at Stiles with unfathomable eyes. His hands rested lightly in the small of Stiles’ back.

Stiles tried to look away but only got as far as staring fixedly at Derek’s lips, imagining them hard and forceful against his own. Strong fingers slid lightly up his back, trailing into his damp hair and around to the edge of his jaw, tilting him up so he had no choice but to look Derek in the eye as the spy leaned in to kiss him. Stiles had imagined a bruisingly rough kiss, but Bond was slow and thorough, sucking Stiles’ lower lip into his mouth and pulling him in tighter until there was nothing but water between them. 

Thick stubble scraped against Stiles’ skin, he parted his lips and let Derek’s tongue slip between them. Derek tasted sweet, like always, and now the urgency was there, the hunger that Stiles had been expecting. Derek pushing him against the wall, forcing his mouth open wider and driving one leg between Stiles’ own to pin him bodily against the stone tiled wall. Derek’s good hand supported him under the thigh, lifting him with ease. 

Raised up like this Stiles was finally at eye level with Derek. He wrapped one arm around Derek’s neck for support and let the other drop down between them to where Derek’s cock was firmly pressed against his own. Derek’s eyes widened, surprised at the way Stiles had taken control. His hand was just big enough to hold them both, and Derek groaned as he squeezed and slowly stroked both their cocks together. He remembered how Derek liked it, slow and gentle at first, building faster and harder until they were both panting with need. 

Derek’s hips moved rhythmically against his own, thrusting him back against the wall and squeezing them tighter together. Everything that wasn’t Derek just melted away. There were teeth digging into his shoulder, and nails clawing into his ass, but Stiles couldn’t have felt less pain if he tried. 

Derek’s thrusts were frantic now, and Stiles’ fingers were slippery with pre-come. Derek’s mouth left Stiles’ shoulder and he nuzzled into Stiles’ neck instead. Breath hitching, he managed “Stiles, I -”, but the thought was cut short as he came loudly, cursing and spilling hot wet spurts over Stiles’ hand. 

Stiles wasn’t far behind him, Derek’s orgasm had triggered his own. Derek held him tight through the shockwaves, and it wasn’t until it was over that Stiles realised he’d been holding his breath for too long. He sucked down long, deep breaths of steamy air, and laughed quietly, forehead resting on Derek’s shoulder. His legs were shaky as Derek released him, but he held his own. 

The bottle of shower gel was almost empty, but Stiles managed to squeeze a little out into Derek’s hands before turning his back on the spy. “Don’t you think it’s time you did a little something for me, Bond?”

He couldn’t see whether Bond was smiling or not, but the hands that spread across his back and around to soap up his front were gentle and caring. “I’ll do anything you want if you don’t shoot me again.”

Stiles leaned back until his head was resting on Derek’s shoulder. “Promise?”


End file.
